


Lost At Sea

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: Take my hand--Take My Whole life too [58]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Depression, IAN BASED, M/M, No angel with wings and a halo just an old man at a diner, Post 5x12 Breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:28:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4086832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been six months since the break-up. Ian's still falling apart, spiralling downwards in depression, and he thinks that maybe he's found his Guardian Angel sat at the back of a stupid diner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost At Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I really thought about this and I did my best to write it all out today. I was thinking about it for a while, and really wanted to do it. SO.... tell me what you think? ISN'T BILL CUTE THO?
> 
> ps. Credit to the film "The Equalizer" for the small dialogue of Bill telling the story about the Fish and the Fisherman ( I couldn't resist)

It had been months. Six months to be exact. Six months since he ran away _again,_ leaving behind the memories that haunted his mind and cut deep in his heart. Ian kept on moving, living day by day in his shitty, one-room apartment, that smelt of damp and tethered whisky. Despite the hollow feeling in his chest, the heaviness of the light against his lids, he carried on, mostly out of inertia. There was a sort of blankness to it, and in a sense, he just turned off because it was the only way to get through the day. 

He couldn't sleep. A couple of hours maybe, but his insomnia got worse as his abuses increased. Alcohol was his new-bestfriend, his new soulmate. It made him feel free, confident, ambitious like he was those years ago. It made things feel that little bit better, that little bit more hopeful. He would always think that being dependant on someone was crucial, was destructive, but needed. The good thing about a bottle of Whisky was that it didn't speak, it didn't break your heart, and it definitely didn't create a black hole within your chest that only one person could fill. 

Each night, he would go to the corner, eat in the diner, maybe hook up with a man or two. Everyday was the same, a tactical routine where Ian's eyes were blurred from last nights fuck up, and it was a struggle. It felt like ground hog-day – same shit, different toilet. The sad thing was, no one saw, or understood, that what they thought was a peaceful water was actually a raging tsunami thriving below the surface. 

Ian would sit against the counter, slouched over his only meal of the day, cherishing every bite for the fact he might not eat the next night. Sometimes he would find it hard to breathe, or even to eat, because it felt like gravity had been turned up, just sitting against a diner stool took the energy out of him. In the corner of his eye, he would see the elderly man sitting at the table, book infront of him, glasses perched at his nose. Sometimes he would even catch him looking over, observing Ian's tatty clothes, scraggy hair, dirty skin that itched all over. 

Then sometimes, occasionally, Ian would observe too; the way the guys table was all arranged in a specific order; knife next to fork, fork next to small spoon, a handkerchief wrapped around a tea-bag that he would put into the pottered mug each time the waitress stepped over to fill it. It was all materialistic, as if the guy had some-sort of disorder that told him to organise  _everything_ in the right way. Really, Ian felt he could relate to that, however his disorder did the exact opposite. 

The man would read the same book everyday;  _The Fisherman's Tale – Lost at Sea._ It intrigued Ian, it made him want to walk over and ask what the hell was so special about this one book. But, his confidence was a sheer breath in the distance. It was an ant on the ground squished by the boot of the hierarchy. Instead, he would observe, take in every little segment of the man's habits, traits, the way he licked his thumb before he turned the page. For one thing, he found it fascinating. 

It was so over-powering how this man's world could be so still. So unmoving when Ian's rocked and tipped, crashing over the waves, the wood cracking and splitting each second it turned. When the waves crash over, he tries to keep his head above the water. But it gets deeper and Ian can't swim. 

Instead he orders another drink, something light before he drowns himself in the bottle of Whisky that he spent his last couple of dollars on. He looks at the clock, the hands moving slower each time he stared;  _Tick. Tick. Tick._ You could say it sounded like the steady beat of his heart, but Ian wasn't even sure he had one of those anymore. Just a pit of darkness, a hole so deep not even a miracle could mend it back. 

So he drinks. 

*** 

The next night it's the same. He wakes up after forty minutes of night-terrors, and he felt sick to his stomach that he felt he would rather be asleep than out there. As he stumbles up, catching himself against the wall, the heaviness in his chest builds, and it never goes away. Ever. 

What does he do? He washes it away. He grabs the nearest helpless drug that he could see, and takes it whole. He waits. He fucking hates waiting. He waited three whole years for something he chucked away in three seconds. There was no form of agony or pain as great as loosing someone who loved you always and no matter what. But Ian guessed by now that he should know enough about loss to realise that you never really stop missing someone- you just learn to live around the huge gaping hole of their absence. And he fucking hated that. 

Ian orders the same, eats the same, downs the same cup of coffee that burned down his throat. Despite the fact that he felt he was standing underneath a floor of glass, screaming and banging on it, trying to get the attention of the rest of the world going on with their lives without him, he  _wanted_ to say something this night. He wanted to confront the man and his special book and still life. For once in six months, he wanted to talk. 

Talking was one of his specialities. Lip would throw books at his head whenever he spoke for too long, or laughed too loud, but that was then and this was now. Ian wasn't that person anymore. 

He doesn't turn in his seat, nor does he look in the mans direction. “He ever catch it?” He asks, voice loud amongst the empty seats of the diner. He was even surprised when he heard his own voice, even  _that_ didn't sound like him. 

“Huh?” The man blurts, and Ian could feel him looking over. Always looking over. 

Ian's not even sure why he cares, he just wants to know if that darn Fisherman ever caught his fish. If there was any chance of  _anyone_ having a happy ending. He could ask that, right? He could find that out and hold it for a while? “The fish. Did he ever catch it?” He repeats, turning his gaze over. 

The old man pushes at the brim of his glasses, smiling over as if Ian was actually a pecan of hope or a snippet of sunshine. For some reason Ian felt himself gulp, swallow harshly against the voices already chattering and tittering in his head. The man finally nods, tapping his book with one hand. “Oh, yeah. Yes. He did.” 

Ian snorts. The light was just laughing in his face now. “A happy ending.” He nods his head, looking over to the clock; its  _Tick. Tick. Tick._ His heart races, telling him that time was up, that he shouldn't interact with this man because he'd embed his fucked up mind into his still, perfected, organised life. Ian was sick of doing that. He laughs around the brim of his mug, “So, it's true. Happy endings only exist on paper.”

Ian should of known not to be so stupid in thinking he could have that too. 

“Well, not exactly.” The old man retreats, drawing Ian's attention back. He looked wise, like he had experienced a lot of shit. Ian could see the little tint in his eye, it revealed everything. Ian tilts his head, the instant sense of nausea washing over him as his body subsided. The old man chuckles, before he taps the book again. “The old man tied the fish to the side of the boat, he had row back to shore before the storm hit. The fish bled in the water, sharks came and ate the whole fish till there was nothing left.” 

The brutal description struck Ian speechless. It almost felt relateable. He thought about it, in that split second. Mickey was the Fisherman, drawing Ian back to the shore, hooking him and keeping him for himself. But, slowly, a beast beneath the waters, his mind, his mental default thrived off his liveliness, his hope, his dreams, and ate him whole till there was nothing left. Leaving Mickey with nothing but pieces of Ian, little fragments that were insignificant now. 

He clears his throat, not blinking. The coffee was finally kicking in. “Isn't that a waste?”  _Like me._ Ian thought.  _Just like me._

“No.” The man shakes his head, pulling his book towards him as he changed the perspective. As if he was talking to Ian directly, silently pledging; _You are worth more than that._ He taps his book again, and Ian is starting to think its some sort of habit he hadn't clicked onto yet. “It depends on how you look at it. The old man met his greatest adversary just when the thought that part of his life was over. He saw himself in the fish.” 

Ian's in a moment of disbelief, listening contently to each and every word. What was this man trying to say? His life was over. There was nothing now. Only a bottle of Whisky and a stupid diner that happened to hold two very lonely people who were conversing about a hopeless fish. 

Then, the man carries on.  _Tap. Tap._ “That's when he came to respect it the more it fought.” 

The words clamp down against his chest, heavier than the hollow feeling already presence. Ian feels himself in that box he had helplessly put himself into those months ago; no windows, no doors, no light. It was so dark that he couldn't even see his hands in-front of his face let along a way out. 

He couldn't fight. Not this time. 

“Why didn't he just let the fish go?” Ian asks, a little breathless. It was strange how the whole thing was effecting him more than the coffee, more than the dubious shots he had taken before he'd left. 

The old man claps his hands together, the sound echoing loudly in Ian's ears. He looked like he was preaching, giving a mass to people who came to see every Sunday, and Ian doesn't feel worthy enough to hear it, to feel it. “The old mans gotta be the old man. The fish has to be the fish. You have to be who you are in this world, right? No matter what.” 

Ian turns back around on his stool, looking down into the empty mug of coffee. He hopes to see his life mapped out in the small granules left at the bottom, telling him that maybe the old man was right. Maybe you just had to be  _you_ and everything will sort itself out. 

The thing was, Ian already knew what he was. 

He was dead. 

***

It happens again the next night. Ian wakes up in a cold sweat, body heaving with whatever life he had left in him. The first thing he does in instinct is reach for the bottle, the warm, tarred, liquid running deeply down his throat, infecting his broken body. When he leaves his shitty apartment, down the grungy steps and into the dark street, he feels himself fall deeper into the dark, bottomless shaft. Sometimes he wonders if and when he falls, will he be caught at the end? And as he looks back to where he had fell from – the place he wanted to get back to – he could see it receding further into the distance, the proverbial light moving further and further away, dimming like a used light bulb, while the shaft becomes deeper, darker, and all the more enveloping. 

The man he fucks is nothing better, nothing more than a faded moan. Ian hates it. It's not even good. He just needs it to release something, or maybe everything, he's not too sure. He already knows he's done something wrong when a fist is thrown into his face, body too weak and too frail to even stand up on two feet. The bruise is probably forming, they always do that quickly, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care at all. At least he felt something for once. Something raw and painful. Something real. 

The diner is open, as it always is, the only light shedding across the street. It's ironic really, because Ian would step into the light of the place, but  _really_ he was walking further into the darkness. He sits himself down, orders his coffee, and watches the clock.  _Tick. Tick. Tick._ It's slower this time. 

The old man is in the corner again, new book, new tea-bag, same lost eyes that quickly glance over at Ian. Deep inside of him, he wants to speak, but he's scared. Always scared. He's scared that the man could be right. That he could be  _something._ That he could fight like that fish. But there's something about the guy; maybe because he seemed paternal, like the father Ian never had, or the fact he most possibly had war wounds, something that Ian could compare too. 

So he speaks. “How old are you?”

The old man darts his head up, glasses at the bridge of his nose, finger tapping against his book.  _Tap. Tap._ He repeats Ian's question, almost like he's testing him. “How old are you?” 

Ian wants to laugh at the question. It's pretty funny. He doesn't laugh anymore. He doesn't know how to. “Like it matters.” He answers. It never mattered. Not to Kash. Not to Ned. Not to any of the fucks he had in the past years. Not  _even_ his own mind considered sympathy for his youth. The only person that did was now moving on, heart-broken, because Ian let himself fall down that shaft. 

The old man nods, taking it in. Tapping his book, he opens it, eyes scanning the pages. It's different. The cover is red, not blue. It's not about a fish. Its;  _The knight._ Ian finds himself intrigued, hooked even. He stands up against his unsteady legs, wobbling a little when the alcohol brewed maliciously in his stomach. He grabs his mug, listening for the  _Tick. Tick. Tick._ Before he bucked up the courage to walk over to the table. 

The old man looks up, startled. Ian waves his hand, tiredly. He's always tired. “I'm breaking protocol, aren't I?” 

“No. No.” The old man assures him, smile bright against his wrinkled face. He gestures a hand towards the opposite seat, closing his book and resting his hands above its cover. “Sit down.” 

Ian runs a hand through his greasy hair, sighing as he slid into the seat the old man had kindly offered. He doesn't say anything not yet. He looks over towards the man, hands cradling his coffee as if it was the only thing warm left in his life. Even that was turning cold. Thankfully, the man doesn't say anything either, he's observing, channelling Ian's jittery actions. Ian clicks his jaw, before leaning further against the table. “I don't really know why I came over here. I guess I just needed a quiet voice before things go crazy.” 

The voices were louder, taunting him, laughing menacingly towards him. 

It grows a little awkward, the tick of the clock their only voice. Until, Ian puts his hand out towards the old man, trying to suppress a equally weak smile. “I'm Curtis.” he lies. He didn't see himself as  _Ian_ anymore. Things had changed and he had changed. For definite. 

“Bill.” The old man takes his hand. It's warm. Unfamiliar. Ian forgot what it felt like to be warm. 

Ian takes his hand back, reaching over to grab a spoon before stirring his coffee with it. The whole situation was awkward, eerie, like neither of them belonged or knew what to say. But Ian felt comforted, as if Bill was some sort of Guardian Angel that would provide the path to the light. 

Great. Now even the alcohol was making him delusional. 

“You know, you don't look like a Bill.” Ian comments, feeling a sense of normality for once. He itches at his hand, the constant habit formed through his paranoia that one day things would get worse. Worse than they were. The red mark was getting deeper, the scratches breaking the skin, and through his distraction he hardly feels the warm, kind hand of the stranger pressing against it. 

Bill taps his hand. “I don't?”

Ian pulls his hand back, hiding it under his sleeve. He's not used to people caring. His eyes burn, and his face throbs from its bruise, and he knows that Bill could see it. “No, you look like a William.” He reaches over the table, hand shaking, and taps the book. “William reads these books in a stupid diner, talking to a stupid fucked-up kid. Bill hangs out in a bar downtown, spending all of his cash on hookers and black-jack.” 

He looks out to the empty street, feeling a twang in his empty heart. He shakes his head, pressing his lips together. He struggles to breathe, “My real name is Ian. Ian Gallagher.” 

Bill taps his finger against his book, pushing up his glasses. “What happened to your face?” 

“Something stupid.” Ian mutters, turning back and looking down into his mug. Still nothing. 

Bill leans forward against his chair, crossing his arms. He sighs, “Someone?” 

Ian doesn't get why the guy was asking. Why would he? Ian was just fucked up kid who drank away his problems, went to a stupid diner with his stupid coffee. It wasn't like he mattered, it wasn't like he actually  _needed_ someone to ask those questions. “You don't know who I am, William.”  _No one does. Not even me._ He thinks. Knows, even. 

Wisely, with smooth words that felt like velvet. Bill taps the book once more, looking directly into Ian's eyes, like he wanted to carve the words into his brain. “I think you can be anything you want to be. Anything.” 

Ian wants to believe it. He really does. But everything he  _wanted_ to be was just a distant dream now. He fucked it up, it fucked him up. No one wins. They never do. Bill made it sound so easy, like he  _could_ see the light at the end of the tunnel that Ian was stuck helplessly in. “Yeah, maybe in your world, William. It doesn't happen like that in mine.” 

In Ian's world, there was no hope. There was nothing. Emptiness. 

Bill reaches to the side of his chair, picking up something from his small, black bag. A book. It has a blue cover. One that Ian could vividly remember. It was stained in his memory.  _The Fisherman's Tale – Lost At Sea._ Bill pushes it across the table next to Ian's cup. “Then change your world.” 

Ian stopped breathing. 

 

*** 

The next day, Ian doesn't put the book down. Not for one second. It was crazy how fast he could escape into the words, the letters drawing him in. He hadn't drank once, not even a drop, because the story helped him forget his surroundings, and everything was forgotten expect the small world he had stepped into, then finally when he closes the cover, it takes him a minute to remember where he was, the time, the complications. The darkness. 

Somehow, he feels like his hands have grown a little warmer. 

Bill's sat in the exact table at the back of the diner, book in his hands, tea-bag soaking into the boiling water within his mug. Ian feels fresh, less drowsy, when he walks through the doors that night. It felt strange not to have the constant thrive of alcohol in his blood, it almost felt like he had lost a limb, but it didn't hurt. It didn't stop the hollow feeling in his chest, or the gape in his life that he had dug deep, but it felt good to actually feel the air instead of imagining it. 

Ian doesn't hesitate when he sits opposite Bill. He places the book against the top, sliding it back over, tapping the cover. Bill's eyes wonder up, smiling a little when he realised Ian's cleaner attire and lighter face. “You read it?” He asks. Ian nods, picking at the side of his nails. 

It all made sense now. The fisherman, the fish, the shark, the deep waters that shadowed the shore. 

“There's no ring.” Ian blurts quietly, noticing that Bill's hand was empty. Sometimes he wishes that maybe one day he'll have a ring, that someone would want to place commitment within him. Thats someone might actually want to be with him for the rest of his life. Of course, his mind only goes to one person, and the guilt just rides back in. 

“What?” Bill's face twists to confusion, closing his book shut. 

Ian sighs a little, bouncing his leg beneath the table. He felt nervous and he had no clue for what reason. He just felt – God, he didn't know what he felt. He never did. All the mixed and haunting emotions just fed off his skin, embedded themselves into his mind. He  _couldn't_ feel. 

“On your wedding finger. There's no ring.” 

Bill looks lost for a second, absently rubbing at his finger before shaking his head. “No.” 

Ian knows that look. He's had it himself. Broken. Lost. Lonely. All the words that count up to the result of nothing. He forces out a chuckle, fingers twitching for a drink he knows he shouldn't have. “So, there's no Mrs William at home?” 

“No.” Bill answers, strongly, as if he's trying to forget. 

Maybe he's pushing it. Maybe Bill had a secret life which he didn't want to reveal. Ian just felt comfortable with this guy, like he was guiding him somehow. He was intrigued, fascinated at how calm, and collected Bill was. He wanted to feel like that.  _Be_ like that. “Was there ever?” 

Bill coughs, tapping his finger. “Once.” 

_Once._ Past tense. Just like Ian's.  _Once_ he had someone to love him.  _Once_ he had the chance to change things, to be better.  _Once_ upon a time he had Mickey and things were good. Not great but good.  _Once_ he had the shot to work things out – and he bolted. 

Ian clears his throat, scratching at his face. “Did you break her heart?”

The old man laughs a little, running a hand through his white hair. “She broke mine.” 

Ian's whole face dropped, his chest clenching tightly as he reminisced the feeling of losing the only person that would, and could, love you. The empty feeling, wanting to just lay down and never get back up. To just stop breathing. The pain inside filling with emptiness and he let it, and he could see in Bill's eyes that he had felt it too. Ian could  _till_ feel it. The way his heart feels like it had been ripped out of his body, torn to shreds because of what he did to Mickey. Like his soul was amputated, chucked away. Nothing. 

He wipes the hopeless tear from his eye, tucking his hands in his sleeves to stop them from shaking. He sniffs up, breathing out carefully. “You know, I've known a lot of widowed guys. There's something in your eyes, it's not sad. No, it's kind of … lost. You know?” 

Bill stares, blankly, eyes watered in the brought up memories. “I see that in yours.” 

Still. Ian is still. He can't breathe because yet again Bill was right. All Ian felt was grief, hurt, loss, all the signs that told he was missing Mickey. That he felt lost in himself because his other half was no longer there to protect him. He hates himself for it. He hates the fact that he ruined Mickey, that he pushed him away when he was at his closest, that he fucked him over because of his own fear, his own greed to never want to take those pills. 

All he feels his hatred. And that's Ian's fault. 

Bill taps his finger against his book, voice quiet. “They break your heart?” 

Ian shakes his head, lip quivering as he tried to bite it shut. It would have been a privilege to have Mickey break his heart. He wished it went that way and not how it did. “I broke his.” 

***

The next night – the diner was shut – Ian walked Bill home, rubbing his hands together as the cold started to catch up to him. The elderly man slowed a little, using his stick to bide his way. Ian followed, his thoughts invading his mind all at once.  _Mickey. Mickey. Mickey._ At first, he thought he could move on, but he couldn't, there was no way out now. He was too deep. Where Mickey used to be, was now a hole in his heart, which he found himself feeling constantly, day-time, night-time. All the fucking time. And he missed him like hell. All he could think about was how to move forward, how to sort things out, and that was Bill's fault. 

Two days went by and Ian hadn't had a drink of alcohol. His fingers were twitching like hell. 

As they walked, Ian looked up to the sky. For once, he could see the stars. Was that hope? What  _ was  _ hope? It wasn't something given out to people in need, that was for sure. Well, to Ian it was. He sighs, hands in his pockets, glancing to the side in-case Bill happened to fall or something. “You know, I love being up at this hour.” 

“You do?” Bill asks, breathless, looking up at the sky through his optical glasses. 

“Yeah,” Ian smiles, his face brightening up just a little through his cracked fatigue. He had missed that; smiling. Not many things made him smile anymore. But the stars, they made it easy. “Everything is so dark, the stars come out, I don't know – it just makes things seem possible. Like a way of starting over.” 

_ Starting over.  _ That's what he needed to do. He keeps telling himself that. Hopefully it will kick in. 

Bill smiles, slapping Ian's shoulder lightly. “Like a new day?” 

“Exactly.” Ian huffs out, knowing it won't be as easy as it seemed. He was still fucked, still broken, still lost in his own mind, loosing the fight against his disorder. “When the sunrises I tell myself it's going to be better. When it's dark, like this, I can feel that it will.” Maybe it was because he was so used to the darkness now, like it had turned into his friend other than his enemy, or maybe it was because the stars shone so bright against it – as if they were stronger than it. Battling through. 

Ian wanted to be like that. A soldier battling through his mind. A star. 

Bill nods to the next street, limping against his leg as they crossed the road. “I can't sleep.” 

“ _God,_ I miss sleeping.” Ian moans, closing his eyes for the split second just to feel the relief in blocking everything out. A car goes back, shocking him to pull his eyes open. It was always too good to be true. Sleep was just a hobby now. “But then again, I get to hear your stories. So, I ain't all bad. What's your new one about?” 

Bill pulls out the book from underneath his arm, flashing out the red cover. “Oh, it's about a guy who thinks he's a knight in shining armour. The thing is, he lives in a world where knights don't exist anymore.” He titters to himself quietly, as if mentally noting something. 

Ian's eyes start to burn. How could a book be so  _ true?  _ Ian always thought he could fight this, kill off his disorder with lies, denial and pushing the ones he loved away, but he still lost. It still took over and it  _ still  _ ruined those around him. He couldn't fight it, because it would always be there. 

“Sounds like my world.” Ian mumbles, looking down to his feet, the heaviness pulling him down. 

Bill points to a house on the left, “This is me.” Ian crosses the street with him, helping him over. Bill is thankful, always thankful, giving Ian one of those sunshine, wrinkled smiles that spread hope across Ian's body. When they stop, Bill sighs, turning. “You still love him don't you.” 

“What-t” Ian stutters, blown by the question. No one had actually asked him that. Well, Carl did, but that was before he knew what his disorder was. But then again, he always knew. He always knew that something would get in the way of them, because something always did. Ian did love him. He knew that now. All the hurt, being apart, the gaping hope digging deeper in his chest, it all revealed that Mickey was the _one._ Mickey was worth hurting for. The fact of the matter was, Ian ruined him, ruined _them,_ he pushed him away when he needed him most. No one should forgive him for that. He wished that clock was here. “I really do. Really fucking do.” 

The old man smacks his back, smile wide. “You go be that Fisherman. Catch that fish.” 

Suddenly realisation hits him. Shit.  _ Catch that fish.  _

***

Ian is scared when he wakes up to see he had three hours sleep. He's scared when he notices that there were still bottles of Whisky lying around that he hadn't touched in three days. It was fucking  _ scary  _ how he was packing his stuff up into a bag, washing himself clean, putting on fresh clothes, and finally ordering things out. That was scary. 

That night he runs to the diner, bag slung over his shoulder. The door swings open and his smile grows wide when he sees Bill sat in the back, waiting for him, eyes as usual hooked into a book. A new book. Ian rushes over, feeling himself grow new as the dirt no longer lingered against his skin. He slides into the seat, planting his hands against the table top.

Bill looks up, nearly choking on his tea. “Jesus, look at you.” 

Ian nods his head, waving his hands towards his clean skin and washed hair. “I'm starting over.” 

And he was. Bill's words had roamed his mind all night.  _ Catch that fish. Catch it.  _ That's what he would do. He was going to  _ home.  _ His real home. This time he needed to sort things out, clear it up, make it better, instead of pretending that one day it would do it by itself. 

It was like a switch; flicked on, finally, making him realise how stupid he had been. 

“You going to catch that fish?” Bill asks, tapping his book. The blue cover. 

Ian feels hopeful, for once in his life. Bill was his guardian angel. No wings, no fucking dazzling tricks where he could spout miracles from his fingers, just pure hope, wise words, and a warmth that crept through Ian's body, consuming him, changing him. He smiles, genuinely for the first time in months, “I'm not letting it go.” 

Bill nods proudly, pushing the blue book towards Ian. “Take it. Don't waste it. I hope everything works out for you, kid.” He taps the book once more, winking through his spectacles. 

“Well, someone once told me that I could be anyone I wanted to be. So here I am.” Ian laughs a little, brushing his fingers over the letters of the book title. It was so strange how a couple of days could mean so much, change so much, and he was starting to feel a little more grateful now. A littl more hopeful that, maybe, he could _win_ Mickey back. 

Bill slaps his shoulder, lifting his fingers up, listing off, “Body. Mind-

“Spirit.” Ian finishes his sentence. Holding it forever. “I'm going to miss your stories, William.” 

He didn't want to say goodbye. Bill was  _ always  _ there waiting for him to go to that stupid diner.

“You've got your own now.” Bill smiles, putting his hand out to shake Ian's. Ian takes it, the familiar warmth flowing from hand to hand, he was starting to think it was a two-way street now. That maybe, his warmth was slowly coming back. 

Ian rushes over the table, pulling Bill into a tight hug, closing his eyes to take a breath. “Thank-you, William. For everything.” Then he lets go, smacking Bill's back a little as he takes off from his seat. He waves towards the waitress, takes a last look at the place, smiles lastly towards Bill and waves him off as he takes off down the street. 

Like the Fisherman going off to sea. 

***

That's how he ended up at the bottom step of the Milkovich home. His  _ old  _ home. He's staring, quivering, listening out to hear Mickey's voice. But it's quiet. So fucking quiet. The strength he felt just hours ago was washed away when the memories flooded back. 

What if he didn't want to see him? 

What if Mickey hated him? 

What if Mickey didn't love him anymore? 

_ What if. What if. What if.  _

So many fucking what if's. It was driving Ian crazy. He was looking at the front door like a bottle of Whisky in a liquor store. He knew Mickey was behind those brick walls, most likely drinking his problems way, or finding someone to yell at. But Ian missed that. He missed  _ Mickey.  _ Even if Mickey didn't want to hear it, or even see him, he was still doing this. He was still trying. 

He takes the first step, each movement slower than he anticipated, heart pounding at each second. He feels like Alice, tumbling, falling, no grip at all, as he fell deep down into the rabbit hole. So far that light was barely visible, that hope was not an option anymore. Soon enough, his life just felt like another reality. Like he was playing a role within some crazed, mind game, that tested his limits, that tested how far he could be pushed before the edge was no longer beneath his feet. 

Back then, he relied on his mind; equation after equation, trying to solve x and the problem of pi. Now it couldn't solve anything. Not even it's own default. Some people would say that the mind is a place of safety, a place peace in which your thoughts are closed off from everyone else, written deep within your memory for no one to touch. Ian's, however, made him feel like a little fish, lured into the sharp, smirking jaws of the Great White. 

And just like that little fish, Ian didn't stand a chance. 

He reaches the top step. The handle was barely two inches away from him. There were noises from behind it's wooden panel; Russian curses, Yevgeny crying, someone shouting. A gruff voice that he knew too well to forget. His heart sank, clenched, trying to regain as the sound was so beautiful, so raw, so missed by his being. He needed that forever. 

“Come the fuck on, Ian.” He tells himself, hand rubbing harshly against his face. 

_ Catch that fish. Catch that fucking fish. Catch it.  _

He hesitates, he tells himself he can't do it. There was too much in the past that barriers anything good coming out of it. But still, he raises his fist, it hovers over the wooden panel. Ian closes his eyes, breathing in deep, book clasped in his other palm.  _ You can do this.  _

That was it. 

_ Knock. Knock.  _

He was out at sea. 

He breathes in deep. Maybe too deep. He hears someone yelling from behind the door. 

_ You can do this.  _ Ian repeats, again and again.  _ You catch that fish.  _


End file.
